


shrugging off the dust and memory

by defcontwo



Category: X-Factor (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Canon Queer Character of Color, Dimension Travel, Gen, Implied Relationships, Late night diner bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America Chavez, Julio Richter and a late night diner, somewhere, anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shrugging off the dust and memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the end of X-Factor and theoretically after the end of the current YA run because while we don't know what's going to happen, we can guess that it's probably going to be emotionally distressing.

The wind blows around her, through her curls, setting the cold desert night alive. If she were human, if she were Kate, she would shiver, probably, draw her jacket closer to her and throw up her hood, curl into herself. But she's not so she doesn't, stops and stands and lets the wind blow through her. 

She likes this Earth -- it's just a couple over from Earth 616, quiet and unassuming, good for that 3 AM itch when all she needs is to get out of her skin and go somewhere new. 

The neon lights of the diner shine bright in the dark of the night as America throws open the door and strides in, greeted by a sea of white and pastel colors. So many Earths and so many dimensions and always, always, there are diners just like this open at 3 in the morning. Once, she would have found it sad that humanity always manages to be quite so predictable but now -- now, it's comforting, she thinks. 

There is one other occupant in the place, a man sat slouched in a booth, a bright red knit cap pulled low over his dark, messy hair, a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of fries sitting in front of him. She knows him. Not personally but when you live the life she leads, you make it your business to know the most important people in the multiverse. 

Julio Richter will never be the most important person in the multiverse but if there's a list, Shatterstar's on it, so like Patroclus to Achilles, he is known. 

She slides into the seat across from him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"I know you?" Richter asks, slipping into Spanish and America relaxes, mirroring his slouched stance. 

"We run in similar crowds," she says. "The Young Avengers send their best." 

His eyebrows raise. "Thought they broke up." 

America reaches over and snags a fry from him, plopping it into her mouth and smiling a little at his start, the hint of indignation lingering around his mouth. He reminds her of -- well, no one, really, but there's something in the gesture, the human nature of it that reminds her of the others. That reminds her of her team. 

"Reformed. Briefly, anyways." Now she doesn't know what they are. 

The aftermath of Mother, of the final battle, of everything that's happened -- they got their happy ending, mostly, but it left them scarred, hollowed out and feeling older than their years and it hurt to look at them and know that she helped make them what they are today. She sees the stubborn tilt of Billy's chin, the way Noh-Varr would ramble on about country music -- she sees Kate, quiet and in control, always the competent leader, who shines bright and close in America's mind. 

She misses them and it scratches just beneath the surface of her skin. She wasn't supposed to get attached. 

Getting attached was probably the worst thing she could have done. 

A waitress ambles out from the depths of the kitchen, green skin and bright purple eyeshadow but the same weary, tired look seen the multiverse over. "Can I have a chocolate milkshake and a plate of onion rings?" America orders and the waitress nods, grunting once before ambling back in the direction of the kitchen. 

"Big talker, huh?" Richter says. 

"Would you be, if you were her?" 

Richter shrugs, a slow and measured movement, heard more through the creaking of his brown leather jacket than anything else. "Guess not." 

"Where's your other half?" 

Richter jerks his head towards the window, in the direction of the motel across the way. "Sleeping." 

"But you're not," she states flatly. 

"Got a lot on my mind," Richter says, taking a deep sip of the rapidly cooling coffee. "You clearly know who I am. You gonna tell me your name or am I gonna have to make it up, chica?" 

America hesitates, wonders for about half a second before she checks herself. She is not Loki, nor is she dealing with him -- she does not have to deal in half-concealed truths and constantly work five steps ahead. "America Chavez." 

Richter nods. "Well, America Chavez, you got a reason for walking in on my quiet time on the wrong Earth or are you just doing it for kicks?" 

Now it's her turn to shrug but she's saved from responding just yet when the waitress comes back with her milkshake, setting it down on the pastel blue tabletop and America takes the time to pull it towards her, gathering herself together. "Couldn't sleep. Got a lot on my mind," she says, curling a mocking smile around the straw of her chocolate milkshake and he snorts, shaking his head. 

"You fucking superhero types and your secrets," he grunts out. 

"Hate to break it to you, _Rictor_ , but you're a superhero type too," America says, all pointed pronunciation, Rictor the codename, not Richter the given name. 

He rolls his eyes, an exaggerated movement, but she doesn't miss the way he casts a quick look out the window at the wide expanse of desert and mountains, the way both fists clench and unclench. 

"So the uniform tells me," he says, blowing out a breath and she scoffs, wants to ask "what uniform?" because the only thing that betrays him, that lets you know he might be anything other than an ordinary guy is the special something, the way there's an almost quiet hum around him, like he's both comfortable in his skin but at the same time, too big to be contained within it. 

"Didn't you have a team?" 

"Yeah -- we had, well, we had a thing. Shit blew up in our faces, James Madrox is a goddamn idiot, all's well that somehow ends well, let's put it that way." 

"Happy ending?" America asks, thinking of Billy and the fierce determination in his eyes and she winces, reflexively. 

"More or less. According to 'Star, anyways. We haven't exactly been home just yet." 

"And you trust that he's right?" 

"Always do," Richter says and America's breath catches, fingers twisting around each other on the bright plastic tabletop, and she wonders what it must be like to trust someone like that. She thinks she could trust Kate like that. 

She wants to, anyways. 

"Now we're taking the long way home, I guess," Richter says and she gets the feeling that he's not the type to talk so much, to share like this, but there's an edge of worry like he's been wanting to get this out to _someone_ and she guesses she's the best bet in a pinch. Any port in a storm or any superhero in a diner at 3:36 AM. "Which isn't how 'Star's powers are supposed to work but he's, I don't know, tired. From everything." Richter shakes himself. "Hell, I'm tired. Maybe it's the both of us. So, we're Earth hopping." 

Her onions rings are fresh and hot, the grease staining her fingers, and America lets herself focus on them, on pulling napkins from the dispenser and getting just the right amount of ketchup on the plate because if she opens her mouth, she's going to offer to _help_ and that's not what she's here for -- she's here to get some peace of mind for herself, not hitch herself to anyone else's. 

"Not really the most exotic Earth, this one," America says at last. 

"Hey, at least it's got real food," Richter says. "You would not believe the crap we've been eating lately." 

"Believe me, I can," America says, voice dry. 

They sit in silence for several moments. The minutes crawl by, the quiet of the diner only broken by the clicks of fork and knife and glass to table, the waitress yelling at the cook in the background. 

"You know what I'd kill for right now?" Richter asks. "Horchata. I started craving it about four Earths ago." 

America leans back in the plastic-covered seats, lets herself sink into it and a smile steals across her face. "Yeah. You know -- " She pauses because there was a point to all of this but -- but maybe she's been going about this the wrong way. Maybe she doesn't have to be alone to find her peace of mind, not all of the time. "I know just the Earth for that. I can take you there." 

"Right now?" Richter asks, looking out across the way to the motel. "'Cause 'Star's an early riser but waking him before he wants to be woken turns him into a grouchy little shit." 

"Nope," America says, reaching for the ketchup, flipping open the cap and shaking more onto her plate. "I have to finish my onion rings first. Think you can wait?" 

"America," Richter says, motioning for another cup of coffee before reaching up to readjust the knit cap on his head, pulling it down over his forehead. "I got all the time in the world." 

There's a grumbling sound as the waitress starts up the coffee machine again. 

Outside, the neon sign buzzes.


End file.
